


Caring Is Not An Advantage.

by YouLowerTheIQofTheWholeStreet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cancer, Character Death, College, Fluff, Love, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-19
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 06:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1142786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLowerTheIQofTheWholeStreet/pseuds/YouLowerTheIQofTheWholeStreet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"An eternity with you doesn't seem long enough, but it's a good place to start"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Originally published on fanfiction.net .   
> I'd love any reviews :)  
> Thanks!  
> \---

Caring is not an advantage.

“Sherlock, come down” Mycroft shouted, knowing that despite his brother currently violently playing violin, he would hear him. Seconds later he heard a grumble, and the door slammed as his younger sibling slumped down the stairs, leading into the library.   
“What, Mycroft?” Sherlock moaned, obviously annoyed at being disrupted. He threw himself down onto one of the leather sofa’s that adorned the room, and snuggled into it, avoiding looking at anything that might disturb his concentration that was now shifting through his mind mansion, sorting all the new details into good and bad memories.  
Mycroft took a deep breath, and sighed. He knew this conversation wasn’t going to go well, and to top it all off, Sherlock was already in a bad mood.   
“Sherlock…Our parents…”He couldn’t bear to say it, but he knew he didn’t have too.  
Sherlock whipped around, his eyes wide. Mycroft saw, just for a millisecond, terror in his eyes, but he soon composed himself, and was back looking as he was just seconds before.  
“How?” he asked, needing to know the facts.   
“Car crash. Samuel, the new chauffeur, was at the wheel. Some incompetent person in a range rover decided it would be a good idea to drive after drowning himself in alcohol at the local pub.”  
Sherlock imagined the scene. The deaths would have been quick, he supposed.   
“Sherlock…” Mycroft continued, knowing this could well be the hardest bit for him to accept, despite the tragedy of the first part. “I’m sending you off to Cardiff Sixth Form College” he then tried to continue over the unhidden gasp that had escaped from Sherlock. “now don’t worry, it has over 99% A & B pass grades for A Levels, and you know that you can’t stay here, not when I go back to Cambridge. And you would be boarding anyway, so I need to know you are somewhere where I can keep an eye…”  
At this point, he could no longer continue, as Sherlock shouted at the top of his voice   
“No!  
Mycroft, I’m fine doing my experiments here in Holmes Manor. Mummy and Daddy were hardly around anyway, so it’s not like it’ll affect my work. Please don’t make me go back to College! I know all that stuff, anyway. They’re all so stupid!”  
Mycroft had to agree with this. He had already had a meeting with the headmaster of the college, and he seemed like a talentless, incompetent idiot. But he couldn’t admit this to Sherlock. He knew this wasn’t why he didn’t want to go.  
“Look, it’s the best college in the country, I went there. And you’re going, there’s no question about that… now go and pack, I’m sending you a week early, because I need to prepare for University.”  
Sherlock groaned at the lack of conversation and closed his eyes, sighing. His parents were dead, and he wouldn’t be seeing Myc for months. Not that he did usually, anyway.   
“Mycroft... what do we do now?” he sounded so childlike, so unsure, that Mycroft couldn’t bear to turn and look at his brother. “We wait and see, Sherlock. I’ll deal with all of this, I promise. Remember, caring is not an advantage”. He slowly walked from the room, closing the door behind him.  
Sherlock groaned at this, and curled into a ball, ignoring his brother’s words. He knew how stressful the following week would be, and he knew that he wouldn’t be sent to college early, as that would mean him missing the funeral, which he would not.  
But oh, how college was useless. He had to talk to people. Had to have a roommate. A roommate


	2. Nerves.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The funeral.

Sherlock was on his way to the college, in the back seat of a shiny, black car. Mycroft was avoiding looking at him, but he didn’t care too much, they hardly talked anyway.

The funeral had gone to plan, relatively.

Mycroft had had to restrain Sherlock from jumping on to the coffins, providing well-rehearsed reasons as to why he should perform another autopsy on his parents before they were buried.

They hadn’t spoken a word to each other since then.

As they pulled into the drive, Mycroft quickly signalled to the driver to lock the doors, and he turned to face his younger brother.

With no other option, Sherlock looked back, glaring. “What, Mycroft?” he spat, trying to unlock the passenger door.

“I’ll send a car during each long break, to bring you to Holmes Manor. Call me if you need anything”

Sherlock groaned at this, the last thing he wanted to do during his holidays was to be locked up in the house with Myc. “fine. But what would I need from you?” he asked, finally unlocking the door. “Enjoy your eighth degree at Cambridge, and don’t eat too much cake, dear brother.”

He leaped out of the car, and ignored the muffled noises that were being shouted back in response, and confidently walked towards the large building, avoiding looking back.

Mycroft sighed, and turned to address the driver. “Central London please”

He looked back and saw what he hoped he wouldn’t. Sherlock’s guard down, his fake confidence shrouded in nerves as he slowly walked into the entrance. 


	3. Afghanistan or Iraq?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock meets John Watson.

John walked up to the dorm room assigned to him.

221

Annoyingly, the college had moved him into the last room on the top floor, not caring that his leg may affect his capability to get there. After his father died fighting for his country in Afghanistan, John had developed a psychosomatic limp which seemed to be a strong emotional response to what had happened.

He was regretting all that happened last year. He had to retake and so had probably been moved into a room with an annoying, horny first-year.

He knocked at the door of his new room, seeing a handmade 'do not disturb' sign taped across the wood, and sighed. Someone was making themselves at home.

The door opened almost instantly, his thoughts being interrupted. A flushed angry face greeted him.

"John Watson?" he demanded, and John responded with a nod, distracted by the chaos he could see in front of him.

The tall, hypnotic boy noticed this, and whipped around shoving pieces of paper and test tubes into various draws, cracks and crevices.

"I…forgot about room share. Your room is to the left, as I need the right to monitor the perfect breeding conditions for my experiments."

"Breeding?!" John gasped, realising that under the havoc was his bed, his private space.

"Hang on, you're not using my room for your experiment's, use your own!"

"But I need the space. You'll be fine. I won't interrupt many activities of yours"

John sighed, surprising himself at how defeated and worn he already felt.

John then remembered they hadn't actually been introduced, at least, not properly. "And you are?" he tried, sighing again when he got a small glare in response before 'Sherlock Holmes. I'd shake your hand but I can see from here you won't move from the door frame, you're leaning on it for support due to your psychosomatic limp. And you're older than me, I see, yet you've been roomed with me, implying you're doing your first's again…but you're not a complete idiot and you were targeted… what A's and B's? So why are you here?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he hushed John when he tried to speak.

"Something tragic happened and you were distracted, missed exams, yes?"

John nodded, closing his eyes.

"Something family related or you wouldn't have developed your limp – it's an emotional response so must be in turn to something you were expecting to happen, so not a death of a sibling due to his drinking habit" John's eyes widened at this, and before he could question it, he got a response. "Oh, John" Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "You have ''Call Harry'' scribbled on your right arm. You aren't left handed so it must've been someone else who wrote it. The writing is shaky, so an alcoholic or an elderly person, perhaps. Not a one night stand, or they would've left a number. Not a boyfriend, as you wouldn't forget him, not at your age. An elderly person is more likely to write a note, not on your arm – completely unhygienic, by the way – so it must be a sibling, Harry, so a brother."

John gasped, and after a couple of minutes he nodded, pushing Sherlock to continue.

"So it's not your brother or your mother. She died a while ago in her sleep, yes? So it must be your dad. You obviously didn't see him often – you don't have any recognisable gifts from him so he was probably a soldier – only had a limited postage allowance. You weren't as surprised as you thought you would be when you found out he'd died. So it's obvious you always expected it.

Mr Watson, Died in action. I'm sorry" Sherlock added, backing up to let John catch his breath.

"Harry is now Harriet" John whispered, opening his eyes.

"YOUR SISTER? THAT'S CHEATING!" Sherlock moaned, annoyed he didn't get everything right.

"Oh, Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

 


	4. You'll kill him

Sherlock had attached himself like a limpet to John since their first meeting. – He was a listener, not a speaker, and he appreciated how talented his friend was. As Sherlock put it, most people just said 'piss off' in response to his rants. Not John.

The first word he spoke when he had fully recovered happened to be 'incredible'

Their lessons happened to be almost the same; excluding where John was taking Biology, and Sherlock, Further Psychology – the extra lessons were something to take up some time.

Study periods were spent doing the opposite – in John's room/ Sherlock's lab. John sat with Sherlock's head in his lap, fiddling absently with dark strands of his curly hair as he explained over and over again how his tutor was incompetent, and his lessons must've been prepared for primary school children. He listened to his friend play the violin beautifully – his fine, thin fingers holding the bow with such extravagance, no one could compare.

More often than not, John would find himself skipping lessons to go to town, or just to see Sherlock, whether it be to talk of how much milk would be needed for the next experiment, or just to sit, in silence. Not awkward silence that you see in films, comfortable silence. He shouldn't have; he couldn't afford to get bad grades. Not that that stopped him. 

Meal times consisted of forcing Sherlock to eat, or bringing something back for him if he was already knee deep in an experiment.

John headed towards room 64, Sherlock's Maths room. He found him standing outside, analysing a tall, strong boy, maybe a year or two older, but 3 or 4 times the width. He was being forced into the locker by the boy in question,  but his detailed examination didn't trail off. John's rage for his friend began to build.

Finally, Sherlock managed to push the limit.

'…and you're obvious usage of the word ''poof'' and the slight bend in your index and ring fingers show you are as straight as a clothes hange…' he was cut off with a sharp blow to the face.

He closed his eyes, expecting another hit. He opened them, confused when it didn't come.

John was pressing the boy to the ground, his whole weight needed purely so he wasn't thrown off.

He was slamming the now limp head into the ground with such force that he had passed out within seconds.

Sherlock reacted almost immediately, more worried for the consequences if his roommate got caught in the act. He pushed through the small crowd that had gathered around the two squirming bodies.

'John' he shouted, trying and failing to pull his friend from the floor. After a few seconds longer, his nerves built, and the tone in his voice changed.  'John stop, you'll kill him!' John stopped immediately, a dark look in his eyes, and looked at Sherlock, then down at the still body beneath him.

His eyes widened, the horror of what he had been minutes from doing, flooding into his face. He hadn't even realised. 

As they both stood up and turned to run a figure in the distance, leaning against the lockers watched them go, a slight smirk on his face as he saw them disappear around the corner. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked. 
> 
> Almost the whole story is up on fanfiction.net if you're not patient enough to read it here - only difference will be the other hasn't been spell-checked, or read through more than just me scanning. So prepare yourselves.


	5. Mycroft

"Get in the car, "- The cashpoint screen flashed. His first time trying his debit card, and this happened. As he looked around, a black limo pulled up. 'Not bothered about discretion, then' John thought, but as he watched the security cameras follow him as he stepped down into the car, he presumed being discrete didn't matter if you had the ability to hack into everything and delete all records that might have helped him if in trouble. 

When he felt a bag cover his head, and tie around his neck, he gasped, panicking. After a few seconds, he realised the tie wasn't getting any tighter, and this was simply a temporary arrangement. 

His first thought was Sherlock; how he would react if whoever it was, killed him. He'd probably shout at John's corpse and tell him off for dying, and then ask to perform the autopsy.

Guilt flooded over him when he remembered Harry. He'd thought of his best friend before his only sibling – he made a mental note to give her a call, if he got out alive, that is.

They soon pulled up to what looked like a deserted warehouse. 'Definitely gonna be killed' John thought, surprising himself at how calm he was. When the bag was taken off he saw a woman who had been sitting in the front passenger seat waited, texting, as he slowly lifted himself out of the vehicle. 'Follow me' she said confidently, quickly walking into the building, and up the steep, dusty steps.

As he entered the nearest room, he found himself standing in an empty, white room, face to face with a tall, intelligent-looking man – he looked around the age of 30, but due to the lack of wrinkles and dark hair colour, John guessed he was in his early twenties.

"Welcome." he said, his clever looks matching with his distinctly upper-class voice.

"Welcome?" John thought. "Not gonna die today then" – he had to suppress a feeling that he had seen this man before. Had he?

"I don't frequent disused warehouses, I promise!" The man spoke, only just covering a smirk.

"What do you want?" John whispered, unsure if he wanted to know the answer as he let his eyes run over the smug man in front of him. 

"Sherlock Holmes" the man quipped, his eyes narrowing at the name.

There was a pause before "…wait, what?" John questioned. "I mean, are you sure? I think you'd regret it"

A chuckle erupted from the mysterious gentleman. "I know exactly how he is… what he is like...and so do you, apparently. No no no, I don't want him, I want you to give me details; nothing personal"

"Who are you?" John asked, he couldn't keep the idea that he recognised him out of his mind.

"Mycroft Holmes. Pleasure to meet me, I'm sure."

John couldn't stop the gasp that escaped from between his lips. 'You're a…a Holmes?! There's more than one?... That makes an unusual amount of sense."

Mycroft smiled at this, waiting for the next expected question.

'Why get me to give you details, if he's your brother?"

He sighed, rolling his eyes. 'You know Sherlock, do you really expect him to tell me anything that I need to know?". John considered "I suppose not" he decided, holding his head in his hands. This was mad.

"I'm in Cambridge, most of the time. I need someone closer. I can give you money, I know you need it."

"No" John replied automatically, not even taking a second to consider what he might have been offered. "I don't want money to spy on your brother. I assume you don't want me to tell him. I won't agree to that, but I will tell you basics that anyone would know. I can imagine he's a pain at the worst of times"

Mycroft's smile disappeared, the truth in the statement overwhelming him. "I didn't name a price, but I presumed that you would be inclined to stay loyal to my little brother. And you assumed correctly, however on your head be it if you choose to tell him, that is all for the moment. Anthea will get the driver to take you back to college – enjoy your week."

"Fine" John replied, turning away and resisting looking back.

The moment he was back in the car, he dialled the number and pressed the phone to his ear. "Sherlock? Should I be scared of your brother?" he asked, fidgeting with a square of leather that was sticking from one of the seats.

"Of course" Sherlock, to John's surprise, calmly replied.

"He's the most dangerous man you'll ever meet, and not my problem right now" he continued, then hung up, slamming the phone with such force it almost broke.

Seconds later Sherlock was dialling a number. "Mycroft, you bloody idiot!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sigh.   
> excuse any bad grammar ;)
> 
> Enjoy the next chapter!


	6. Gregory

John and Sherlock had been room-mates in college for 6 months now, and since the abrupt meeting with Mycroft, things have only got more… heated.

John spends all his lessons and free time with Sherlock, finding him more help than the tutors.

They had both avoided being excluded due to Mycroft's continued financial support, which happened to benefit both of them.

Their next venture was the holidays. John was planning on skipping a dreary visit home to stay with Sherlock.

…

Holmes Manor – 2 weeks until the first long break.

'I'm not a babysitter, Myc' Greg groaned, rolling his eyes.

'And Sherlock isn't a baby' he chuckled back, looking into his lover's eyes.

'He's  _much_  worse'.

Greg noticed Mycroft's waistcoat was unbuttoned, and his tie loosened, revealing the top button undone. That was as comfortable Mycroft got in clothing. God forbid anyone but Greg who dared to wear tracksuit bottoms in his home.

'But…surely it'd be better if we were introduced  _gradually_?'

'Yes, Gregory. But seeing as you live in Holmes Manor now, and he and John are coming down in two weeks, I think we're a bit past gradual, don't you? I don't think you could keep quiet about us for the whole three weeks, anyway.'

Greg sighed, knowing it was going nowhere, and admitted defeat. 'Fine'.

He went to lean in to the tall man for a kiss, but was interrupted by the national anthem.

'What the – 'he started, but was cut off. '-No need for swears, darling' Mycroft said, fishing in his waistcoat pocked for his mobile.

'Work?' Greg asked, rolling away slightly on the bed.

'Work' Mycroft agreed, taking a deep breath, shooting an apologetic look to the man beside him and answering the call.

'Yes Prime Minister. Safe passage for members of the U.S embassy? Of course, I'll place it on code Cyan: 2213. Yes, all in order. Thank you, have a productive day. And you' He finished, and as he ended the call, he caught Greg's stare. 'What?' he said, distracted as he texted Anthea the news.

'Why would the PM call you, personally?!' he asked, amazed.

'Oh, little do you know Gregory, little do you know'

 


	7. Breaks

 

Sherlock couldn't stop fidgeting.

John was coming to stay at his for three weeks! He had texted to make sure everything was right for when they arrived, and although he couldn't stop Mycroft from meeting them there; he planned to show John around the nearby village, which would coincidently avoid any of the expected confrontations about college attendance.

He hadn't stopped talking throughout the four hour car journey, and John found himself getting incredibly excited. He had never done anything like this before.

As John found that they were pulling into a long, winding driveway, he couldn't stop himself gawping at the sight before him 'You weren't joking about it being Holmes  _manor_ , were you?' he said, finally closing his mouth.

'Of course not' Sherlock replied, slightly embarrassed by the extravagance of his home. 'I never joke'.

As they stepped out of the car, Mycroft Holmes appeared, smiling, his eyes only slightly glassy and distracted.

'Welcome home Sherlock, John' he said, raising his arms.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and folded his arms, and after a few seconds, John decided to speak. 'Hello, . Thank you for allowing me to stay'.

'Call me Mycroft, please. Not at all, not at all'.

At this point, Sherlock's eyes narrowed, and he walked to the left slightly to see if he could view behind the half open door. 'Why are you being nice, Mycroft?'

Mycroft groaned at this, and turned around to reach for something, a man shuffled out of the house, eyes to the ground.

'This is Greg, Sherlock. I'm sure I don't have to describe the circumstances to you, do I?'

'Obviously not. And he's a detective inspector, excellent. He will come in handy. Come, John' he beckoned, pushing through the men to get into the mansion.

John trotted behind, flashing an apologetic smile towards Greg.

'Sherlock, why were you so rude?' John asked, sighing.

'I wasn't, it is his fault he didn't consult me before he let him live in our house.'

John suppressed a chuckle, avoiding mocking his friend's immaturity.

'Your brother is a grown man. He doesn't have to ask your permission. You should apologise'.

Sherlock groaned, and pouted, but when this had no effect, he stood up and ran downstairs, leaving John in the corridor. He heard a shout 'MYC, GREGORY, SORRY! – JOHN TOLD ME TO, ALTHOUGH HE'LL PROBABLY BE MAD I TOLD YOU THAT'.

Sherlock ran back upstairs and looked at John expectantly.

'Good enough for now, well done'  John whispered, grinning.

Mycroft hadn't moved. He and Greg stood next to each other, paralysed with shock. 'Did Sherlock just apologise because John told him to? I thought you said he didn't listen to anyone?'. Greg questioned, looking around, surprised.

'He doesn't. Apologising means admitting defeat. He'd never do that. Unless Sherlock's chosen'.

'Chosen what?' Greg asked.

'The one'.

 


	8. James

'Come on, John!' Sherlock shouted, his flustered excited face only just noticeable across the field.

John had no idea where they were going, but Sherlock had received a call, and without explaining, he'd dropped his suitcase which he was unpacking at the time, and ran out of the house, only stopping to shout for his friend to follow.

When John finally caught up, he found Sherlock sitting by a younger boy, whom he was telling to go home. The boy was scruffy, and he looked like he hadn't washed for days. 'Just go, James. I'll look after him, just go. Take this for your mother'. Sherlock handed the boy a £20 note.

The boy finally stood up, and handed the tiny rabbit to Sherlock. He took one last, longing look, smiled a deep, yellow toothed grin at the two boys, and finished with 'Cheers, Sherlock. Ma will be 'appy.' And he ran off into the distance, at a speed which didn't seem possible.

John sat next to Sherlock and the sleeping rabbit, and waited for an explanation.

'That's James. His family is homeless, I help him along sometimes. I'm beginning to set up the homeless network. I scratch their backs, and they scratch mine. Then I disinfect myself, of course'.

John grinned at this, seeing the flicker or adoration in Sherlock's eyes as he stroked the tiny animal.

'So, why do you have a rabbit?' John asked.

'James found him, and he's unwell, I promised I would treat him, and then return him to the wild.'

'Wait this is what we ran for? A rabbit?' John questioned, his smile broadening.

There was no response, but he saw Sherlock's lips turn into a small smile, before returning into his normal, icy posture.

'How do you know he won't just spend that £20 on something before he gets back?'

Sherlock paused, ruffling his hair with his right hand. 'His sister, Lucy, is dying. I'll find a treatment, but at the moment… I can't do anything but help them get her food and water' Sherlock sighed at this, and avoided eye contact with John.

'That's… incredible, Sherlock. I didn't think you would care that much, but surely if there hasn't been a found treatment, it's a long shot that you'll find it?' John asked, frowning.

Sherlock stood up, and straightened his clothes and kept a tight hold on the rabbit. 'Let's go home, John.' He whispered, pulling his friend up.

They walked in silence for ten minutes, until John couldn't handle it any longer.

'Sherlock… thank you for letting me see another side of you, I'm so grateful.' He said, slowing to a stop.

He reached towards Sherlock, and stroked a fine strand of dark hair to the side. He cupped his chin and raised it down, standing on tiptoes and reaching towards his face.

Sherlock leaned in, his mind blank, no idea how this could be happening.

John brushed his lips against Sherlock's and they both poorly attempted to supress a moan.

John violently shoved his lips into Sherlock's, slowly working his mouth open. His partner complied, breathing heavily, and only began to pull back when he needed to breath and didn't want to do it into John's mouth.

He shook his head. Was this a dream?

John's eyes widened at what he had just done, and he looked at the unhidden fear in Sherlock's eyes.

'What. The. Fuck'

 


End file.
